Easy Like Sunday Morning
by DottieP
Summary: We get a glimpse into Quinn and Santana's life in NYC on a lazy Sunday morning. Same universe as "Office Hours."


Easy Like Sunday Morning

**Summary**: Same universe as "Office Hours." We get a glimpse into Quinn and Santana's life in NYC on a lazy Sunday morning.

**Pairing**: Quinn/Santana

**Rating**: NC-17. It's smut.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own these characters, yada, yada, yada.

**Author's Note 1**: Damn you, Lionel Richie.

**Author's Note 2:** Someone requested some plot with the smut. My dirty, dirty mind rejects this idea in its entirety. HOWEVER, I like these two characters and actually want to explore their journey. So, I might integrate some plot into later stories. But, for now, here's a little background, a little insight into our girls with a dose of porn.

**Author's Note 3**: After seeing the "Valerie" performance from the concert like a bajillion times, I felt compelled to integrate the "come on over" finger.

**Author's Note 4**: Same universe as "Office Hours."

_Sunday, 9:14 a.m_.

Quinn rolls lazily on to her side, extending an arm to what she thinks will be a waiting, warm body. Instead, she finds an empty space and crumpled sheets. She stretches, causing her white tank top to ride up over taut abs. The seductive aroma of rich coffee is what finally tugs her out of their luxurious bed. She smiles to herself, _I bet she's made me breakfast again; her special Eggs Benedict and breakfast potatoes, I hope._

Sometimes, Quinn still can't believe that BAMF Santana Lopez cooks and not only that but is good at it _and_ is cute doing it. Actually cute. No one would have described the brunette as "cute" in high school or in the early part of college. Scary, mean, smoking hot, sarcastic, a fairly good singer—yes. But, cute? No way. Only Quinn has had the privilege of witnessing that side of Santana. And, the blonde will confess that she is very lucky to have done so.

After Santana attended the week-long boot camp at the Culinary Institute of America in upstate New York last summer, she has been cooking up a storm, and Quinn has been on the receiving end of some fantastic meals. Today would be no exception. And, Quinn knew that Santana knew that one way to Quinn's heart (and into her pants) was through her stomach. Quinn found food erotic, and Santana used every chance that she got to flex her culinary muscles to impress her girlfriend (and hopefully get a little action as a result). But, Santana's passion for cooking extended beyond trying to get laid; she truly loved the process of cooking, and she relished the time that she got to spend in her state-of-the-art kitchen. One of those times is now—a quiet Sunday morning with Sumatra coffee brewing and a little Miles Davis on the IPod dock. It feels like a perfect moment for the brunette; it is only missing Quinn.

Speaking of whom, in strolls the blonde: hair still a bit disheveled, which Santana found incredibly sexy, and still in her pajamas. It was something about the tank top and very tiny shorts that Quinn wore to bed that made Santana stop what she was doing and just stare. (There may have been a little drool, too.) Every after being together for nearly eight years, Santana still felt her stomach drop and a pooling in her underwear every time Quinn entered a room. Quite frankly, she loved it.

"Morning, gorgeous," Santana smiles from the stove as she poaches a couple of eggs. Quinn wraps her arms around Santana's waist and sneaks a hand underneath a very tight white t-shirt. This earns her a small growl from the brunette, who was now distracted from her task.

"I know what you're making and I can't wait. I'll just grab the paper and some coffee so I don't distract you from making me my breakfast." Quinn smirks and moves towards the front door.

"Too late for that," Santana tosses at Quinn over her shoulder. And, then adds almost under her breath, "If it weren't for these damn eggs, your hot ass would be on this island and your pants would off so fast that your head would spin."

After hearing the door shut and soft feet padding along the hardwood floor, Santana finds Quinn snuggled against her back once again. "I hope that's a promise," Quinn says, dropping her voice an octave lower and licking Santana's earlobe to punctuate her words. The blonde moves away and grabs a cup of coffee before settling on their obscenely large couch with the _Times_. (Quinn once said that she could live at Restoration Hardware; their loft looked she did.) While Santana works on the hollandaise sauce, Quinn separates the newspaper, as was their routine on Sundays. She tosses the front section, dining, book review, and travel to the other side of the couch and keeps the arts, style, and business sections for herself.

She smiles as she settles into the couch, with the arts section poised on her lap. Some people may perceive their Sundays as boring or lazy, but the couple finds comfort in the silence, in the familiarity. They agree not to work at all, which includes Santana not checking emails from students or grading, and Quinn can not read anything work-related or check email. This, they believed, kept them sane and helped them to retain a level of intimacy that their friends envied.

_10:07 a.m._

"Breakfast!" comes the singsong voice from the kitchen. Quinn nearly knocks over her coffee as she scrambles to get up.

Santana never ceases to amaze her; the table is set beautifully and the food is plated as if they were dining at one of New York's finest restaurants.

"Sweetheart, this looks amazing; thank you," Quinn says in awe of the feast that sits before her. "Mmmm, mimosas."

They sit in comfortable silence, save for the sounds of pleasure as they ate. Santana quirks a half-smile as she watches her girlfriend devour her breakfast, moaning with nearly every bite. And, Santana immediately desires to hear those moans in a different setting…and sooner rather than later.

"Good?" the brunette asks still with that smirk gracing her beautiful face.

"Are you kidding? This is fantastic! You did something different though; I taste a bit more salt. And these mimosas really don't have any orange juice in them, do they?"

Santana chuckles at that last comment, "Nah, we had that bottle of Dom in the fridge, and we can't contaminate the good stuff with juice; it's there really for color. And yes, I did do something different; I'm glad you noticed. There's a small piece of fried pancetta layered in there."

The blonde nods, pleased that she is able to notice the small change. Santana had taught her a lot about food and cooking, and Quinn just liked that she could keep up, even a little, with her foodie girlfriend.

They finish as they started, in silence. And, Santana clears the dishes while Quinn returns to the couch but not without first looking over her shoulder, "Santana Lopez, housewife." She winks and walks away. Her comment earns her a low growl from the other woman who was hovered over the sink, dishes in hand. _Pfft, I'm not a fucking housewife_. Clearly, someone can't see the irony.

_11:46 a.m._

The two women sit opposite each other, reading the newspaper, legs casually resting on the couch. Santana has her glasses perched on her nose, and Quinn sips her coffee as she moves her arm behind her head and slides down the couch a bit further. From across the sofa, Santana looks up from the dining section to watch Quinn's white tank top slip up a bit from the movement. The brunette smiles to herself and drops the paper to the floor.

"I want dessert," Santana softly says, dropping her voice to that register that makes Quinn instantly wet.

Without looking up from her arts section, Quinn suppresses a giggle and replies, "We just ate; aren't you full?" _I'm not that easy. Well, I am, but I want her to work for it at least._

In that same voice (which Quinn calls her 'fuck me voice'), Santana, nearly smirking now, attempts, "Get your sweet ass over here Fabray because I wants my dessert and I wants it now."

"That old school Santana attitude doesn't work on me and you know it," chuckles Quinn.

"Fine," Santana pauses, "New school Santana says take off those hot, tiny shorts so I can suck your clit until you cum all over my face." _That should do it_.

Quinn now looks up, hazel-green eyes already darkening at Santana's words. She doesn't hesitate to start to move. Santana then meets her eyes and crooks a finger at the blonde, silently beckoning her to join her on the other side of the couch. The blonde crawls over and straddles Santana's waist.

"I want those off," Santana demands pointing to Quinn's shorts, "and I want you up here," she further insists, pointing above her head. A moan escapes Quinn's lips as quickly complies. The blonde loves this position because she can watch Santana's beautiful face as she makes her cum.

Rich hazel-green eyes meet chocolate brown as Quinn hovers above Santana. The brunette slowly slides her hands up soft, firm thighs, carefully avoiding contact with any sensitive area. She rubs her thumbs over Quinn's already wet folds.

"Fuck, baby, you're so gorgeous," Santana moans, licking her lips as she follows the movement of her thumbs. Quinn keeps her eyes on Santana while the brunette slowly parts her and just stares. This intimate scrutiny just turns Quinn on more, and Santana whimpers as she sees the blonde just get wetter under her intense gaze. Santana grazes her thumb over Quinn's clit, barely touching it but enough to where Quinn tosses her head back and grips the back of the couch.

This is Santana's favorite place to be, and she wants to take her time, to enjoy the view as it were. "I can do this all day," she confesses as she continues to softly massage Quinn.

"Please" is all that Quinn could under between uneven breaths.

At that, Santana firmly spreads Quinn and licks the length of her—almost painfully slow— earning her an animalistic growl from the blonde above her. In response, all Santana can do is moan at the exquisite taste on her tongue, a taste that she will always want. She needs it; she needs more.

"So good," Santana mumbles against Quinn's center, "So fucking good."

Quinn uses the hand not steadying herself against the back of the couch to weave tightly into thick black hair, holding Santana firmly in place. "More, Santana," Quinn begs.

Santana sucks Quinn's hardening clit into her mouth, moans, and begins to softly lick, rolling it over her tongue. _Perfect_ is all Santana could think in her overly aroused brain, _just perfect_.

Quinn looks down again, watching her girlfriend suck and lick; seeing how much pleasure Santana gets from being buried in her pussy just turns Quinn on more. And then, she feels it—the burning in the pit of her stomach, her walls beginning to clench, her clit throbbing against a soft tongue. "Right there, fuck," she loudly moans.

Santana responds in kind and ups the pressure on Quinn's clit, trying to coax the orgasm out of the blonde. And then she does; the waves crash over Quinn—hard, and she barely can stay on her knees or hold herself up. Santana eagerly drinks in what Quinn pours on to her tongue and chin. She feels it coat her lips, which, if asked, just might one of the sexiest things that she's ever experienced—having Quinn drip on to her lips after she's cum. At this, Santana's eyes rolls back into her head as she savors the taste. This was better than any food that she could make or have, better than anything that would cross her full, pouty lips.

"Fuck" is all Quinn can manage to utter as her legs shake and abs start to slowly stop clenching. Santana pulls her down and wraps her arms around Quinn's small waist. She kisses the top of the blonde head, and Quinn settles into Santana's neck, enjoying the warmth and calmness she feels in those safe arms.

"Thanks for my dessert," Santana says softly with a small smile.

"You can have dessert anytime, gorgeous," Quinn replies with a tired chuckle.

"Good answer," Santana offers. They lay in silence, content to just be with each other.

"I love Sundays," Quinn sighs.

_Fin_.


End file.
